


Monday

by Potix



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character's death but with a silver lining, F/M, Prompt Fill, Romance/Angst, groundhog day fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-17 19:53:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1400431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Potix/pseuds/Potix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Creamocrop on Tumblr gave me this prompt: "A groundhog day version of Sherlolly where Sherlock repeatedly experiences the day molly dies…so, yes, beware: angst...". Written (and published on FF.net) before s3 aired.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Come back

**Author's Note:**

> Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steve Moffat, Mark Gatiss own Sherlock and his realm. I just own my computer,my version of Openoffice, and my sick fantasies. English is not my native language, please forgive the mistakes and the typos.

* * *

 

_And the days they linger on, yeah_   
_Every night I'm waiting for_   
_The real possibility that I may need to end my pain_   
_Sometimes you're there and you're talking back to me_   
_Come the morning I could swear you're next to me_   
_And it's ok_

_It's ok, it's ok_

_I'll be here_   
_Come back, come back_   
_I'll be here_   
_Come back, come back_   
_I'll be here_   
_Come back, come back_

_**"Come back" - Pearl Jam** _

* * *

When it happened, he was not in London. It was the first time he had left the city with John after his "resurrection", as the newspapers had called his sudden reappearance in the land of the living. The case was barely a 8, and it involved a former Russian spy, an old posh gentleman and the theft of a super secret software used in nuclear submarines. Mycroft had promised his younger brother that he would not oblige him to attend the next two Christmas parties at the Holmes' , if he could solve the case within the next 24 hours, so it was obvious that Sherlock couldn't lose the opportunity to rightfully avoid his family for two years...

The train had just arrived at Cardiff Central, when he heard John's mobile ring."Greg! I'm sorry but Sherlock and I are not in London right now so it will have to wait-what? When? Oh,no, God no...no she can't be...". Sherlock couldn't hear what the DI was telling to his flatmate and colleague, but if the words John was uttering were not obvious , then how fast his best friends was turning pale, his broken voice, and the single tear that was running down his face were enough evidence for anyone less clever than him to understand that the news were bad. Really bad.

"What happened?"the consulting detective barked, but John only raised a hand, gesturing that Lestrade was still talking. "I- I'll tell him. We'll be back as soon as we can just give us the time to take the next train. Ok, yes-bye Greg". Just as John hung up, Sherlock's phone beeped, signaling a new text.

"A car is waiting for you outside the station. A private jet is ready to bring you back to London- Mycroft"

Mycroft. Not MH, as his brother usually ended his texts. Sherlock knew that he had signed his texts with his birth name only twice: the first time, when he announced him that their father was dead, and the other after his fake death, to offer his help. It couldn't be something related to their mother, because Greg had phoned John, not him. Something bad had happened to someone close to him, and if it wasn't their mother, than it could be only Mrs Hudson, or...

John's voice was laced with sorrow."I need you to sit down, Sherlock..."

"Just tell me,John. Being comfortable won't change whatever it is. What happened?"

"There-there's been...oh God, I'm so sorry Sherlock, I-"

"Tell me what happened!" the consulting detective shouted, and a few people in the waiting room glared at him.

"There's been -a shooting,and..."

"Where?"

"Sherlock, I don't know how to-"

"I asked you where, John". His deep voice was cold,stoic, but John Watson knew that the man in front of him was not insensitive. No more, after his "death". No, the way his bright eyes were almost shining was not because he had already figured all out. This time there would be not applause, no praises for his keen intellect. This time, Sherlock Holmes was waiting for someone to tell him that he was wrong. Oh,how he wanted to tell him that he was not right, but he couldn't. Denying the truth wouldn't let the pain disappear, John knew it.

"St. Barts. At the morgue"

Bright, chestnut eyes, full of intelligence and comfort. Dexterous fingers,using a scalpel skillfully. A pointy nose - he had heard Mrs Hudson define it cute - and under it, the sweetest smile someone had ever offered him. The portrait of generosity and caring. John's following words, pronounced with cracked voice,were like blood-red paint thrown at it.

"Molly...Molly is dead, Sherlock"

* * *

They didn't let him see her. Lestrade made the identification, and called her brother, the only Hopper left now. The shooter...well, he was only a desperate man with a gun. He had lost his wife, a simple operation gone wrong. He wanted to blame someone, and maybe he was right, maybe the surgeon was not focused enough during the surgery...but he couldn't find him, so he went down to the morgue. There he found Molly, performing the autopsy on his wife. He shouted to leave her, to leave his wife alone, and fired. Once, twice...Lestrade told them that Anderson was searching for the cartridge cases. Then the shooter tried to run away, but the hospital security thankfully had managed to block him before he could harm someone else. Someone who was luckier than Molly Hooper, someone that owe his/her life to her.

John had defined him a machine, and like a robot Sherlock listened to Lestrade telling him the facts. There was no mistery to solve, just the victim'ss death to acknowledge. John had tried to comfort him, in his own embarrassed way, but he didn't say anything. They returned home, John carefully broke the news to Mrs Hudson, and together they cried, and mourn her. Sherlock didn't waste a moment with them: he went to his room, stretched out on his rarely used bed, and spent the entire night committing every single memory of his pathologist to his memory, until an entire wing of his mind palace was dedicated to her.

When he opened his eyes again, the clock on his nightstand told him it was seven o'clock. He opened the door to find John calmly eating his breakfast at his desk.

"Hey, you need to prepare your suitcase, we have to catch the train in an hour...". John's voice was cheerful, and Sherlock opened his mouth for the first time since they had left Cardiff the day before.

"Molly...she's..."

"What about her? Please don't tell me that you're forcing her to take care of your experiment at St. Barts...she's a doctor, you know? Not your personal slave..."

How could his best friend, the emotional and caring doctor, being so insensitive? Molly was...wait, did he use the present tense?"She's a doctor"...it was not uncommon for friends and relatives to still use the present when talking about a recent dead person, but it still didn't make much sense...unless...

"What day it is, John?"

"Monday, why?Sherlock, what are you doing, we need to go the station!You can't-"

Sherlock didn't hear his friend shouting at him the rest of the sentence. He was already on the street, hailing a cab for St. Barts. It had been only a nightmare, it was simple like that; it didn't happen often, but after his fall his dream activity had increased slightly. His cellphone was still in his coat. It took Molly only three rings to answer, but her voice was a soft balsam for his ears.

"Sherlock, hello! Do you need something? Oh,sorry, wait a minute...Excuse me, you can't stay here...". He heard her approaching someone, then a male voice shouting "Leave her, leave her alone!". Three gunshots, then just heavy, laboured breathing.

"Molly! Molly, stay with me!", but none answered him.

She was gone.

Again.


	2. Everything must go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steve Moffat, Mark Gatiss own Sherlock and his realm. I just own my computer,my version of Openoffice, and my sick fantasies. English is not my native language, please forgive the mistakes and the typos.

* * *

 

_And if you need an explanation_   
_Then everything must go_

_I look to the future it makes me cry_   
_But it seems too real to tell you why_

_Freed from the century_   
_With nothing but memory, memory_

_**"Everything must go" - Manic Street Preachers** _

* * *

The third time, it was the first time Sherlock saw Molly Hooper die. He was just turning the corner, and was running towards the morgue. He heard Molly's voice, then Mr Sumner shouting...and the gunshots. Three gunshots, then the sound of heavy footsteps, running away.

He had seen hundreds of crime scenes, in his career. Some were almost neat; some gruesome. This scene was pure horror, because for the first time, he knew the victim. Molly Hooper's body was surrounded by blood, and when he kneeled down to check her vitals, he was able to see the last drop of life leaving her eyes. Her pupils, hollow and cold...her skin was still warm, and his fingers, stained with blood,  _her blood_ , traced an unknown figure on her wrist. No pulse. How many times had he checked her pulse, just by looking at her jugular vein? How many times had he witnessed her skin blushing, her pupils dilating, while simply speaking to her? He didn't know...and his biggest regret, in that moment, was the fact that he had not paid enough attention to all those details. His biggest hope, was that one day the nightmare would stop, but only because he would be able to save her.

Once, it almost happened. Maybe the cab driver was faster than the others, maybe his legs had more stamina...that time, he was able to tackle down Mr Sumner after the first shot. He punched him once, twice,three times, with fast precision (he was a boxeur, he knew exactly where to hit to make more damage as possible)and left him unconscious, the gun discarded on the floor. Molly was still breathing, there was less blood than the other times...and it was then that Sherlock discovered that the first shot was the fatal one.

He pressed one hand against the wound on her neck, praying that someone had heard the shots (since when had he prayed for something to happen?), not trusting his voice to shout for help. He heard the commotion in the hallway, someone was coming, thankfully.

"Sh...Sher..."

"Don't try to speak, Molly...I-I'm here, don't worry". Sherlock Holmes, the man incapable of feelings, trying to comfort the most sensitive person he had ever met: whoever, or whatever was playing with Molly's life, with his life, making him relive that day forever, had surely a sick sense of humour.

"I- I'm dying, Sh-"

"No, you're not. Molly, I-"

Her breath was more laboured, then suddenly it became feeble, and he checked her pulse by instinct. Weak, but still there.

"Move! I'm losing her!" he shouted to the nurse that was coming into the room, his fingers still on her wrist...gone. No pulse.

No Molly.

Again.

* * *

It was the seventh time Sherlock woke up and it was still Monday, that he decided to risk and tell John. He had tried everything: alerting St. Bart's security, to stop Mr Sumners before he could reach Molly; trying to move Mr Sumner's wife to another morgue; ordering Molly to run away...everything in vain.

Maybe John could help. Maybe he could see something his intellect could not detect. Maybe he just needed a friend.

"Hey, you need to prepare your suitcase, we have to catch the train in an hour...". Every day, the same sentence from John welcomed him. It was dreadful, and the evidence that he was still trapped in that hallucination.

"No time. We have to go to . Now"

"Sherlock, your brother..."

"I don't care a damn about my brother! We need to catch the first cab and arrive before it happens!". He ran towards the door, John behind him.

"Sherlock, why?"

"I will explain later, now move!"

Obviously, John didn't believe him at first: he tried, of course, but the good doctor just assumed that Sherlock was trying to avoid helping his brother, or worse, that he had overdosed his nicotine patches. It was only when they were out of the elevator, in the morgue's hallway, when they heard the shots, that John understood.

"Do you believe me, now!?" Sherlock shouted to him, before running desperately, trying to reach Molly before it was too late.

The image of Sherlock crouched at Molly's side, his useless attempt at tamponing the wound on her neck with his handkerchief...that desperate man could not be his flatmate, could he?

"Don't stand still, come and help her! You're a doctor,save her!" he plead, but John Watson was a former army doctor: he had witnessed death more than Sherlock, and he knew that there was nothing he could do.

"Sherlock, she-she's..."John's voice trembled, and he felt the tears pooling in his eyes. Molly, sweet, brave Molly...why? "We must call someone..."

"No need...they're coming. First the red-haired nurse, then the janitor...give them three minutes, and the security is going to catch Mr Sumner". As predicted, a ginger woman, an old man with a blue uniform entered the room. Sherlock remained still, his hands red by the blood...his fingers were caressing Molly's skin.

They waited for Lestrade to arrive, and the consulting detective mechanically proceeded to anticipate everything: the DI's words, and then Mrs Hudson crying and mourning, Molly's brother's phone call...

"So it happens to you everyday?" John asked Sherlock later, when they were home, sitting in their armchairs, Sherlock still dirty with Molly's blood on his hands.

"Yes" was his laconic answer.

"Since when?"

"It's a been a week today"

"And it ends always with..." the good doctor couldn't pronounce the words: for him, it had simply just happened, and he found the idea that Molly was gone simply too strange, unbelievable...

"Molly's death? Yes, she always dies...always"

"I don't know what to say, Sherlock. The fact that she's gone, and you have to live it all over again, every time, alone...it's beyond cruelty"

Sherlock simply nodded, his expression unreadable. John Watson had seen Sherlock going hysteric over a case, being frightened by the idea that his brain would fail him in Baskerville...but right now, he couldn't imagine what his best friend was thinking. He knew that Molly had helped him faking his death, and that he had always respected her as a valuable pathologist, but Sherlock's behaviour told him that maybe something else had transpired between them during the years in which he had been dead.

Sherlock's voice interrupted his speculations. "I suggest you go downstairs to console Mrs Hudson- she always takes her death very badly..."

"Sherlock, if there's something that I can do for you..."

"Not for me, for Molly. Help me save Molly Hooper, John. We... I need to save her"


	3. Letting the cables sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sherlock, if there's something that I can do for you..."
> 
> "Not for me, for Molly. Help me save Molly Hooper, John. We...I need to save her"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steve Moffat, Mark Gatiss own Sherlock and his realm. I just own my computer,my version of Openoffice, and my sick fantasies. English is not my native language, please forgive the mistakes and the typos.

* * *

 

_You in the dark_   
_You in the pain_   
_You on the run_   
_Living a hell_   
_Living your ghost_   
_Living your end_   
_Never seem to get in the place that I belong_

_**"Letting the cables sleep" - Bush** _

* * *

"But how? It's like we are stuck in a maze, and we can't find a way out...you tried everything you could, yet you're still here, trapped..."

"Well, I just need to find an Ariadne's thread...but do me a favour, John"

"Of course, everything...what do you need?"

"Remember. Just remember all this, tomorrow".

* * *

John didn't remember. Obviously. The nightmare had to be his, and his alone.

* * *

**Two weeks later**

"Hey, you need to prepare your suitcase, we have to catch the train in an hour..."

Sherlock was tired, frustrated...three weeks of that torture had drained every ounce of mental energy from him. It was worse than boredom, it was a never-ending agony, a perpetual fight against time, and death. He couldn't stand the vision of Molly's dead body, day after day; the constant toll his intellectual faculties were paying to save her life, was making him apathetic. So he grunted "I'm ready. Let's go to Cardiff".

While on the train, he locked himself in his mind palace,trying to concentrate on the details about the case. He succeeded, and excluded everything: John talking, the sound of the train, the annoying idle gossip of the other people in their compartment. Until the phone call. He knew what it was coming, Lestrade's cracking voice, John's tears...but Mycroft was right. _"All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage"_. Yes, Molly Hooper was dead...and one day John will die too, like Mrs Hudson, like Lestrade; like Moriarty did. He was the one who had defeated death, once: but one day, the end will claim his life, too. So why waste time, energy, brain cells, into love, friendship, caring? Would caring about others help save them? No. There was nothing logical, nothing rational into loving mortal people: what was the point in them being happy at the moment,if they were going to be sad later?

The sound of the train braking,and consequently stopping,prevented him from continuing his pondering. He stepped off the train counting the seconds that divided him from the imminent phone call. He tried to distance himself also physically from John, to avoid hearing his best friend reacting to Lestrade's words, but in the end, he couldn't. He witnessed once again the shock, the sadness, in John's eyes; he heard him ask the same questions to the DI, and mutter the same dreadful words.

Sherlock heard his cellphone vibrate in his pocket: once again Mycroft informing him that the car was waiting for them outside, and that the plane was ready to bring them back to London. He didn't want to ask John what happened, because it was useless, he already knew...but he did it, anyway. And John told him, again, tears pooling in his eyes-the good doctor repeated to him that Molly, sweet, amazing Molly Hooper was dead.

"We-we need to buy the tickets to go home..."

"Useless" Sherlock disagreed with him."Mycroft sent a car,with that you can reach the airport in no time"

"Oh...well, let's go then". The ex army doctor started to walk, figuring out only after a few steps that the consulting detective remained still. He turned back, and approached him.

"I know you may be shocked, I can't believe it either...but we need to return to London, Sherlock"

"You go. I'm busy"

"Busy?!". John Watson wasn't sure he had heard correctly."What do you mean, busy?"

"The case, John. I need to solve it". Sherlock explained, like it was obvious.

"You need to...?Doesn't- didn't she mean anything to you?". He was bewildered by Sherlock's behaviour."She risked her career, her reputation...she would have sacrificed her own life for you!". The blogger shouted, but it didn't get a rise out of the stoic man in front of him.

"She's dead, Sherlock. Molly is dead. You can't remain here, like nothing happened..."

No reaction, at first. Then Sherlock decided to pronounce the words that he knew would drive John away."All lives end. Molly's life ended tragically, but there's nothing to do about it. Not you, not me, none can change it. Caring is really a disadvantage, John: the sooner you will accept it, the better for you". He saw the horror in his best friend's eyes; the trust, the confidence in him, the admiration, slowly dissolving with every words.

"I thought you had changed...I was wrong. You're still a machine. Stay here on your own, I don't care. Just one thing: when you'll return,I don't know if you would find me at Baker Street. I don't know if I can forgive you this time...Now, if you excuse me, I'm going back home, to my friend Molly. Goodbye, Sherlock". John walked briskly towards the exit, not turning back. He didn't see the lone tear escaping from Sherlock's moist eyes; he didn't hear him whisper "Goodbye, John".

* * *

Sherlock wandered about Cardiff for about an hour, before reaching his client's house. He solved the case in just two hours, but even the thrill caused by solving it in such short time didn't erase the nagging sense of guilt residing in his non-existent heart. He had disappointed John;no, John was more than simply disappointed,that time. It had been selfish, coming to Cardiff to solve that meaningless case, he knew it; but he needed to occupy his hectic mind with something different, with something new, with a puzzle he could actually solve, so he could relish again in the certainty that his mind was still powerful, that he was still able to find a solution to a problem.

He drove John away to demonstrate that he was right, that he could still be himself, the great Sherlock Holmes, the man without a heart-because sentiment complicated everything: it was only a loss of time, of energies, and he was better than the others, he could live alone, without the burden of emotion slowing him down...

Molly was dead...so what? She had encountered her ultimate fate sooner than he could predict; but it could have been because of a car accident on the way to work, or choking on a peanut...he really couldn't do anything about it. He had tried, but he had failed. Even Sherlock Holmes could fail, sometimes.

Then why, why the repeating of that day? And why only for him? "Because I am the only variable in the equation..." he thought, "But what else can I do?".

He spotted a bench,and he discovered that his aimless wandering had lead him to a park. He sat down, his gaze focusing on the other people. An old couple, two teenagers arguing, a man with a dog...and then, in the distance, a young woman pushing a stroller, a seven, or eight months old baby in it. There's something familiar in her, and after a moment, he understood what it was. The jumper. The woman was wearing the same hideous, childish jumper with the cherries that Molly loved so much...suddenly he saw the future that Molly could not have, not anymore: a family, babies, a promotion, a new flat in a better neighborhood...a man by her side. Happiness. Love. Life.

What would Molly do? Could he be strong enough,brave enough,to do the same,to give her a chance to continue her journey? Sherlock Holmes knew the answer...and while he was running towards the station to catch the first train to London, for the first time in two weeks, he finally smiled.


	4. Come back: reprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steve Moffat, Mark Gatiss own Sherlock and his realm. I just own my computer,my version of Openoffice, and my sick fantasies. English is not my native language, please forgive the mistakes and the typos.

* * *

 

_Weeks turn into months_   
_Months turn into years_   
_Reaching the same conclusions_   
_Gathering up the fear_

_Come back, come back to me_   
_I've been waiting here patiently_   
_Come back, come back to me_   
_I've been waiting here patiently_

_**"Come back"- Depeche Mode** _

* * *

Seven o'clock. Still Monday. Another chance to save Molly Hooper...and this time, he would not fail.

* * *

Sherlock didn't bother to reply to John's questions, when he bolted out of his room and rushed down the stairs. He could hear his best friend shouting at him from the living room's window, while he was trying to make a cab stop. He got in the car, and barked his destination ("St. Barts. The shorter route you know. And don't try to cheat, if you don't want to loose your licence - I bet your boss wouldn't be too happy about you screwing his wife"), before extracting his cellphone from his coat's pocket. He answered to John's call with a firm and brief "Not now. I'll explain later", and ended the conversation, without listening to his blogger indignant response. He needed to be focused. He erased the music from the radio, the cabbie's muttering, the noise of London's traffic, and retreated in his mind. Now that he knew exactly how to stop this nonsense, he couldn't afford to lose his concentration. This time, Molly Hooper would live.

The sudden braking made him leave his mind palace. A traffic jam. He cursed, and re-made his calculations about the distance from the hospital, and the time he had left- the time Molly had left. If this absurd mess had taught him something, was that using his mind would not suffice. He needed to find another way. So, he did the most illogical thing he could: he left the cab, throwing the fare against the driver's seat, and ran outside. Sherlock ran, and ran, not even sparing a glance to his watch, until his legs ached, and the lactic acid claimed that he couldn't do more. He didn't listen, and didn't stop until he was already inside St. Barts. Only then, while he was running towards the morgue, he checked his watch. 7.30 a.m.- It was still early: for the first time, he had a real chance to save her, and let her live.

It didn't occur to him that he had entered the morgue, until her voice reached his ears. Her voice, so kind, so full of gentleness, of care...asking him what he was doing there.

"Aren't you supposed to be on a train to Cardiff? I don't have time to help you, I was just preparing the instruments for the next autopsy, and I assure you, it will be quite boring, no mystery about this death...".

He didn't answer, only moved her away from the tray, already full of scalpels."Sherlock, are you okay? You are a bit pale, and you're sweating...are you coming down with a fever?". She instinctively raised a hand to check his temperature, but caught herself before actually brushing his forehead."I'm sorry, I wanted just to-".

His index finger,placed against her lips, stopped her apologies. He allowed himself the luxury to feel the texture of her lips under his fingertip: they were small, indeed, but smooth, and warm...and slightly trembling. Her eyes widened, and he tried to memorize every speck of copper in her chestnut iris; her breath hitched, and he absorbed her inspiration, trying to detect the taste - something bittersweet, probably that hot fondant chocolate she was so fond of...Sherlock wished he had more time, to classify every detail, but he knew that the clock was ticking towards the inevitable. He should have done it before, pay more attention to her, and try to decipher the enigma that Molly Hooper represented.

"I need you to remain silent, and do exactly what I say, the very moment I say it, Molly. Just listen to me, and everything will be fine". The consulting detective removed his finger from her mouth, and the moment it happened, he began to miss its warmth. He had so little time, and no speech prepared. He heard John's voice in his head, suggesting him to be honest to her, like she deserved him to be. He took a deep breath, and began to speak.

"I want you to fully live your life. Try to be more ambitious: you know you have the talent to realise your dreams. Let John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade take care for you, sometimes: you deserve it, more than anyone I know. They are your friends, don't you ever forget it - and continue to take care of them for me, like you already did. Don't stop to study, to be curious, to find new goals". He stopped, and spared a glance to his watch. "Find yourself a good man. Someone who can show you his affection, and treat you right. Have a family. And most important, regret nothing. Live a life without a regret, do what you want, the moment you want it. Don't waste your time, Molly. Promise me, would you?"

Molly simply nodded, too baffled to reply properly. Sherlock smiled, a true, genuine smile."You may speak now, Dr. Hooper".

"Promise". The moment he bent down, to caress her forehead with his lips, he heard the door opening. Molly's eyes darted to a man on the threshold, waving a gun. She opened her mouth, but Sherlock pushed her back, letting her fall to the ground. He mouthed the words "Stay down!", before turning to face the stranger. She remained on the floor, paralyzed. She heard the man shout "Stay away! Stay away from her! Leave her alone!", and saw Sherlock approach him...calmly, like it was the most normal thing to do, like it was nothing.

It took the man only one shot, and Sherlock Holmes fell. His body made a strange sound, when he touched the floor...like it was suddenly hollow. She crawled towards him, her attention on him, and not on the shooter, who was already running away. There was blood, too much blood...she shouted "Help! Help me!" while pressing her hands on the wound on his abdomen. Sherlock was struggling to speak, but she knew he didn't have to waste energy. "Later, Sherlock, you will tell me later...don't speak, don't-".

His breath became more laboured, and she bent down to check his pulse. Weak, but still there. Someone was running in the hallway, hopefully the shot and her shouts had alerted some employees."Someone is coming, don't worry", she hushed him, while a nurse was coming into the room.

""Move! I'm losing him!" she shouted to the woman, her fingers still on his wrist. Sherlock opened his eyes wide, and let out a strangled sigh; then, his body went limp in her arms.


	5. Epilogue: Breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it's over. The silver lining, Ladies and Gentlemen, Signore e Signori, Madame et Monsieur, Sehr geehrte Damen und Herren...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steve Moffat, Mark Gatiss own Sherlock and his realm. I just own my computer,my version of Openoffice, and my sick fantasies. English is not my native language, and this story is un-betaed, so please forgive the mistakes and the typos.

_Breathe , breathe in the air_   
_Don't be afraid to care_   
_Leave but don't leave me_   
_Look around and choose your own ground_

**_Breathe - Pink Floyd_ **

* * *

 

The first thing he saw, when he opened his eyes, was white. White everywhere. So much light was hurting his eyes, so he closed them, and focused on something else. The memory of the shooting assaulted him. The shouts. The bullet. Molly's voice, speaking to him, begging him...

Suddenly, the smell of that awful disinfectant they used at St. Barts invaded his nostrils. He connected the dots - white room; neon lights; sudden pain when he tried to move his torso. He was alive...obviously. But not in his room. The plan had worked. He opened his eyes,and he wished he didn't. His brother was scowling at him. What an atrocious sight.

"You're awake..finally". Mycroft's stern voice welcomed him. "Another sacrifice, Sherlock? Aren't you tired to save your acquaintances? I reckon it might become a bit boring, after the second time...".

He didn't have the occasion to reply, because John Watson walked in the room. "Your brother is right, Sherlock. What you did was extremely stupid". Sherlock's surprised expression at his best friend's statement mirrored the one that his older brother was wearing. "It was one of the most foolish, dangerous...and brave things I've seen you do. I'm very proud of you". The ex army doctor delivered the last line with a big smile on his face, squeezing his shoulder.

"Well, I see...dear brother, it seems you are on the mend. Goodbye". Mycroft nodded at John, and Sherlock rolled his eyes." Pompous idiot" he grunted, and tried to lift his upper body, failing miserably.

"Don't exert yourself...you're lucky that the bullet didn't touch any vital organ, but you lost a lot of blood. Thankfully Molly-"

The mention of Molly's name chased away any thought about Mycroft, or the pain. "How is she?" he inquired, hoping his voice didn't betray his worry.

"She's alive, thanks to you...but exhausted. As I was telling you, she donated a lot of blood to help you, more that it was necessary, just in case...Did you know that you two have the same rare blood type?". He didn't. Another piece of Molly Hooper's puzzle. "Without her, you could have died, Sherlock".

How ironic life was. He had taken a bullet to save her, and she had been the one to save him. Again.

Sherlock had not time to think more about it, because a bunch of doctors entered the room to check on him. They explained to him what happened during surgery, how long he had to stay at the hospital...useless, boring things. He faked tiredness, and they left. Eventually John said goodbye too, promising to bring Mrs Hudson with him the next day ("She cried, and then called you a moron, and cried again. After that, she started to clean the flat for when you'll be back at Baker Street"). The consulting detective, finally alone, withdrew in his mind palace, and proceeded to catalogue the latest events, until sleep claimed his conscience.

* * *

When Sherlock woke up, he sensed a strange weight on his right arm. Something soft, silky, was covering it...and tickling it. He tried to move his fingers, but they were restrained. A hand, calloused but still delicate, was laying upon them. He breathed, and a comforting aroma invaded his lungs. Formaldehyde. Bergamot. Dark chocolate. In two words, Molly Hooper.

He tried to turn his hand, to gently trace her palm with his fingertips, but his movement interrupted her sleep. When she opened her eyes, he saw so much in them. Too many details he had tried to ignore. Too many emotions he had dismissed as childish and futile. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe, it was time to be honest, and to stop faking. To admit the truth.

He was lost in his thoughts, so he didn't see that her pale face was now just a few inches away from his. She smiled, and Sherlock's heart (that organ he was not supposed to have, and to use) skipped a beat. Wordlessly, she brushed her lips against his cracked ones. Hers tasted of coconut, of crisps, and Earl Grey. They tasted of hope. Of life.

Molly smirked, the twinkle in her eyes was the vow of something more substantial, when he would be fully recovered. She let him return the peck, before separating from him again."No regrets, Sherlock. I promised to you. Would you do the same, for me?".

"I promise, Molly".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, let me thank a few people. First of all, Creamocrop: thanks for giving me this wonderful prompt, and with that, the chance to write some angst, which was something I've never done before. Flavialikestodraw: what can I say? She's one of my favourite artists in the Sherlolly fandom, and a an irreplaceable first reader, and adviser. Thanks to a person who is not in the fandom, but is still very important to me, in my real life. Even without knowing it, even without reading this (and other) story, he's helping me to be happy, serene, and a bit more self-confident. And last, but not least, thank you to the ones who used a tiny bit of their time to read this story. Thank you very much.
> 
> Irene


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